In The Cold, Cold Night
by ohhsnap
Summary: If you're honest with yourself, it's almost worth the names your old man calls you, just so you've got a reason to be here now.


With a shaking fist, you start to pound on the door until it swings open.

Merrill gives you a once over, his eyes lingering on the busted lip and red mark under your eye that, without a doubt, will be black and blue by morning. He says nothing, just pushes the screen door open and lets you slip past. It shuts behind you with a slap, slap, bang! against the frame.

You're still cold from the half run, half walk over. It's warmer in here, but still not enough to stop your shivering. Buck motions carelessly to the stairs. He knows who you're looking for. Behind him, in the other room, there's laughter and shouting; a real good time. He looks annoyed at being torn away from it all, even for a few minutes. "Up there. First door on the left."

Your shoulders hurt, and your shoes are wet from the midnight grass. The soles squeak each time the stairs groan under your feet. Music's thumping downstairs, the base pounds into the building's shabby walls, vibrating through your head. Upstairs the hall's empty, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling is all you have to help you navigate your way to the right door. It almost hurts to breathe, you're still out of breath. It's hard to ignore the yelling coming from the party; it's too much like the yelling you just escaped from.

The room is mostly dark. The blinds slice through what light there is, casting eerie shadows across the bare floor; they look like prison bars and seem to fit the mood you're in. In the far corner, you can see the silhouette of an occupied bed.

His shirt gets caught on your foot as you cross the room and you kick it off only to trip over his rodeo boots lying some few feet away. The boots give you the idea to take off your own shoes, and the last few steps to the bed are sounded by the pat pat pat of sock-covered feet.

He's lying on his stomach, one arm under the pillow, the other laying across it, hanging off the front edge. Ponyboy loves to draw his hands. They're long, and thin. He doesn't bite his nails like you do, till they bleed.

A feather light touch, on his bare shoulder. His skin is warm. "Dally?"

He opens one eye with difficulty. It takes him a minute. "...Johnny?" His voice is hoarse, thick with sleep.

"Yeah."

Another minute. He's not quite awake yet. Maybe he was dreaming. "...What is it?"

Somewhere far off a dog barks. Downstairs, a glass shatters against the wall. You want to kick yourself for starting; the sound's got you conditioned to brace yourself for the worst. "Just... needed a place to crash."

He gives you a clouded look, but you can tell he gets the jist. In the end he decides not to ask. "Shit... Yeah, all right." He stretches, the sheets sliding down his shoulders to pool around the waist of his jeans as he props himself up on his elbows. He runs a hand through his touseled hair, breath hissing through his teeth when he sucks in a yawn. "C'mere."

It's happened before, and he knows the routine. He scoots over, making room as you climb in. Your feet leave the solid floor and the mattress gives under your weight. His body heat still lingers where you settle. It's too dark for him to notice you pressing your face into the pillow he surrenders. He's just taken a shower. You can smell the shampoo.

The sheets are white, or at least they had been when they'd been new. Because of this you don't feel so bad when the blood from your lip soaks into the pillowcase and smears across your cheek as you turn your head to look at him. You wonder if he can hear your heart beating against your ribs, it's so loud.

He drapes an arm over you, across your shoulder blades. Nevermind the stuffy room, that feeling of closeness is why you came here. A shirtless, sockless and half asleep Dallas is better than the alternative vacant lot, better than the worried looks the Curtis' would give you. He doesn't see you as a charity case; he knows what it's like. You let your body slip into the narrow, secure space between his chest and the mattress. The only hints of affection you've ever see from him are phsyical. It's all he can offer.

"S'okay, kid..." he mumbles, eyes closed again. "S'okay." He's trying to be both attentive and asleep all at once, but you take it. The bridge of your nose fits perfectly into the dip between his neck and shoulder, and the small realization calms you down. You blink a few times, lazily, feeling your eyelashes brush lightly against his bare skin. He sighs contentedly, still stuck in that place somewhere beyond consciousness.

Listening to his breathing become even and light, keeping rhythm like the second hand of a clock. The soothing monotony of it makes you drowsey. Your heart beat slows. The adrenaline's gone, that fight-or-flight instinct you're constantly haunted by is shoved into the background. If you're honest with yourself, it's almost worth the names your old man calls you, just so you've got a reason to be here now.


End file.
